


American Idiot

by FredAndGinger, SpinalBaby



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cancer, Drug Abuse, Enjolras is going crazy - Freeform, Fame, Hospital, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Icon, Illegal Activities, M/M, Mental Instability, Over Dose, Overdose, Prescription Drug Abuse, Rallies, Suicide, Terminal Illnesses, Tour Bus, Touring, Weird dreams, communication issues, hurtjolras, injuries, political rally, sickjolras, there is some happy in here I swear, they all travel on one bus like seriously how do this many men fit on a bus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FredAndGinger/pseuds/FredAndGinger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinalBaby/pseuds/SpinalBaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage Enjolras, terminally ill and with nothing to lose, is out to change the world and catches the attention of a certain cynical artist. Grantaire joins them on their tour of rallies and protests across the country. Mental instability, police brutality, angst, and slight bombing ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Idiot

**AMERICAN IDIOT**

Saint Jimmy stood atop a monument in Grantaire’s hometown. The statue stood tall in the center of the town square, and a large crowd had amassed to cheer on the protestor, who was at the beginning of a country wide tour of rallies. Saint Jimmy was a popular media subject, having gained fame for several energetic and somewhat over-the-top protests against the Bush Administration. He had an unnatural charm that caused more and more to follow him, lured in like sailors to a siren. This was also Saint Jimmy’s hometown though, and he had come back to give his people a dose of his medicine once again.

Grantaire was walking through the crowd on his way to get a beer from the bar that the people had been blocking mindlessly in their awe of the Saint. He had been somewhat zoned out in his own world when a voice, loud and smooth as silk broke through his thoughts. He turned around to see a blond man at the center of the crowd, speaking down at the people. He was covered in sweat, yet still delivering his speech with unbelievable enthusiasm, it was no wonder he’d gained so much popularity lately.

“I don’t want to be an American idiot!” he shouted to the people, “Do you? Don’t just mindlessly follow what the media is telling you! Stand up, look outside of your paranoid little worlds and listen to what’s really going on! Are you with me?” The crowd cheered back.

Grantaire was transfixed on the man. As Saint Jimmy continued talking he felt drawn in, like maybe, despite his disagreement with the total optimism, he might be swayed to the man’s way of thinking. 

Grantaire was so lost in thought that he all but ran into Joly, who was standing in the crowd giving out fliers. 

“Grantaire! Hey!” Joly said, waving as a bunch of his fliers flew away. 

“Joly, where have you been? You like dropped off the face of the Earth.” Grantaire said, glancing up at Saint Jimmy a couple times. 

“Oh, I’ve been following the protest! It’s going on this tour all over America and Canada.” Joly said, handing Grantaire a flier. It looked like shit. “You should join us.” 

Grantaire thought about it, gazing up at Saint Jimmy more fully. Maybe a change of scenery would be nice, and if Joly was offering he probably wouldn’t have to pay for the ride. 

“I’ll call you.” Grantaire said, “You’re doing something right now. But you definitely need new fliers and I was thinking about travelling, so maybe.” 

Joly looked excited and threw his arms around Grantaire “Oh man, you won’t regret it! Just listen to the speech, you’ll be convinced.” 

Grantaire nodded and continued to move forward in the crowd. 

Later that night Grantaire met Joly at a bar, where the rest of the men who followed Enjolras all sat around in a booth. Enjolras was in the center of the booth, looking bored as he took a pill from his pocket, swallowing it with a drink. Joly got up when he saw Grantaire walk in, walking over to him, grinning.

“Enj, this is the guy I was telling you about. He’s a great artist, and offered to make our fliers for us and come along on the tour.” He smiled, “Enjolras this is Grantaire, Grantaire this is Enjolras, or “Saint Jimmy”. The nickname caused the the blond to smirk, blue eyes looking up from his drink.

“So you want to come along, but do you believe in the cause?” Enjolras asked, looking up at Grantaire.

“I don’t believe in anything, least of all this. But it’s interesting.” Grantaire said with a shrug.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, giving Joly an unsure look.

“He really is great at art, and… and he could help you strengthen your arguments against the opposing side.” he motioned back at Grantaire, “This guy will basically say anything to be Devil’s advocate.”

“Hm…” Enjolras leaned his head against his hand, thinking for a minute, “Well. I guess it couldn’t hurt.” he sighed. “But you’ll have to sleep on the loveseat. There aren’t anymore beds.”

**JESUS OF SUBURBIA**

**Jesus of Suburbia**

Everyone in the tour bus was gathered around the TV, trying to squeeze onto the futon bunk across from the TV, Jehan and Courfeyrac cuddling on the bunk above. Joly was snoring in the bunk below the television. They were watching the latest segment on the news about their most recent protest. It had been about a week since Grantaire had joined, and already they had made it to another city, and were getting ready for another rally.

“So, sir, what do you think of Saint Jimmy and his band of protesters?” The woman on the news asked, holding her microphone out to a person she was interviewing off the street near the location of the next rally.

“Well, hes’s sort of like… a character, y’know? He’s amassed a cult like following over the past couple of months, it’s sort of insane. A real hero of the people I guess. I hear he even has followers with him on the road. He’s kind of like… the Jesus of suburbia.”

Enjolras had been taking something earlier in the night and was a little more incoherent than usual, laughing at the man’s statement, “The Jesus of suburbia, eh?” He drank more of the coke in his hand pulling out another pill from a bottle he had in his pocket. He swallowed it with a gulp of soda, smirking. “Well, I never thought I’d be compared to the son of a God.” 

Some of the Amis laughed. “Hey Jesus, why don’t you buy us a round of drinks at the next bar?” Feuilly joked. The rest of the men cheered, Enjolras rolling his eyes. Something was off about him but he didn’t protest, giving in.

“Well, why not?” he shrugged, “But you guys better be on your best behavior for tomorrow’s rally. I expect bright faces, no matter how hungover.” he crossed his arms, “Bahorel, stop at the next bar you see.” Enjolras called to the driver. 

“Got it.” Bahorel nodded from the driver’s seat. 

Grantaire had been watching the news report intently, squished on one end of the futon, sketchbook in his hand. The Jesus of suburbia… He pondered that thought in his head, staying behind in the bus when everyone left the bus to go to the bar. He wondered if that made him a disciple. Did he really believe in this cause? No, but he must have believed in something to be here. He began to sketch Enjolras, standing with a large red flag, draped over his body. He drew him with a crown of thorns around his head, and staring directly ahead with open arms. He drew a halo of light around his head, smudging it and setting it down as he looked at it. The Jesus of suburbia. 

Grantaire sighed, closing his sketchbook and standing up. He wished he knew why he’d followed Saint Jimmy. He walked over to the bathroom door, pushing it open, eyes widening when he saw Jehan leaned over the edge of the sink, snorting a line of white powdered substance.

“Oh, uh, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” He turned to walk away.

“Nah, it’s fine. Courf hates it when I do this, but it helps me write.” He straightened up, wiping his nose a little.

“I guess whatever gets the creativity flowing,” Grantaire shrugged.

“You’re an artist… You want some?” Jehan asked, giving Grantaire a friendly smile.

“Oh… uhm…” Grantaire didn’t want to be rude, “Sure.”

**City of the Damned**

Enjolras stumbled out of the bar which his friends still occupied. He was a little too wasted to be wandering off on his own, but he of course didn’t realize that. There was a 7/11 about a block away from the bar and where they parked the bus. 

He wobbled into the store, grabbing an advil bottle off a shelf and going to the bathroom. As he stopped to take a piss, he looked around at the graffiti covered walls. 

“Home is where the heart is.” Enjolras read sarcastically. “The center of the Earth is the end of the world?”

If he was the Jesus of suburbia, then these must be his scriptures, Enjolras thought, amused. 

He shook his head. He didn’t really care about that. He popped one of the pills from the bottle he hadn’t yet bought and went out to pay for it. 

He got a little lost on his way to the bus, a little unable to read the signs, but he got there eventually, where Grantaire was sketching furiously in front of the TV. 

**I Don’t Care**

Grantaire and Enjolras were arguing. It was about something on the news originally, but Grantaire could no longer really remember what they were talking about. Enjolras was just spouting off some bullshit about how he couldn’t understand how Grantaire didn’t care about their cause. He wouldn’t let Grantaire get a word in edgewise. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire tried, attempting to get the man to calm down and actually discuss rather than just sort of yelling, but the blond just seemed to be repeating himself.

“Grantaire, I don’t care if you don’t fucking care, I don’t.” He was talking over anything Grantaire tried to say. The man was stumbling around a little as he spoke, waving his arms uncharacteristically. 

“I DON’T CARE!” Grantaire yelled, shutting Enjolras up. Jehan even looked up from where he had been sitting, writing. 

“Everyone’s so full of shit.” Grantaire continued, “Even you. You’re all hypocrites. You say that you want to make people understand what you’re trying to tell them, but all you do is repeat yourselves over and over again and I’m fucking tired of it. You’re the people who don’t believe in anything. You just tell people what to do and expect them to think the things you think.” 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, looking a little bewildered. 

“No, listen Enjolras. You think you’re the fucking Jesus of suburbia and we’re your disciples, but you need to take what people are trying to tell you into account.” Grantaire said, before seeming to stop caring, “But whatever, you do you.” 

**Dearly Beloved**

After the argument Grantaire went to sleep on his loveseat in the back of the bus. Instead of sleeping he stayed up staring at the ceiling, since the cocaine that Jehan had given him hadn’t worn off yet. 

All he could think about was Enjolras, and he sighed, throwing his arm over his eyes. 

‘God damn it. I like him too much.’ He thought miserably, ‘He’ll never want me though, he’s too driven, too beautiful.’ 

Grantaire sighed again. He was way too high to function. He settled himself in for a long night of examining his life choices. He settled in a little more when he noticed Enjolras go into his bedroom and close the door. 

**Tales From Another Broken Home**

Grantaire never thought it would happen, but he was actually a little homesick. The absurdity of the situation was sinking in. He had went to follow some insane man he’d never met with friends who’d dropped off the face of the earth a little under a year ago. 

He ran away for more than just painting, he knew. He needed to get away and he was fascinated with all of the revolutionaries. They were all so interesting. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were Enjolras’s best friends and they’d been there since the beginning, but it wasn’t until one of their first rallies that Joly and Bossuet joined them. They were so moved by the message that they wanted to follow him to the ends of the earth, If anyone was going to change the world it’d be Enjolras. 

Jehan was there because of Courfeyrac. They’d stopped somewhere in Washington for a little break over Christmas and they’d fallen for each other, but instead of making Courfeyrac leave or try the long distance thing, Jehan had decided to join the little troupe. 

Bahorel and Feuilly were maybe some of the most firm believers in what Enjolras wanted. They were tough, working guys and they were pissed at some of the laws being passed by the administration. They were here for their way of life as well as their personal liberties. Plus Feuilly was also a painter and Grantaire thoroughly enjoyed talking to him. 

Marius was another story altogether. He’d been raised by his grandfather and not told when his father died. His grandfather was a bible-thumping, NRA member and Marius wanted none of that when he had begun to form his own opinions. 

Grantaire had just taken out his sketchbook to start to sketch all his new friends with tragic backstories or something when Enjolras came back out of his room and stopped by Grantaire’s couch. 

“Hey.” The blond said, sitting on a little edge of the cramped loveseat. “I just wanted to thank you. I mean, you didn’t have to drop everything and come along. And you’ve already been a help. I’ll listen more. So thanks.” Enjolras looked a little embarrassed to be saying this out loud and got up to leave. 

“No problem, Jesus.” Grantaire said, grinning a little, “I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Enjolras blushed a little, returning to his room. It hadn’t been long since Grantaire had joined, but he was already starting to like him. Their banter always kept him entertained, but there was something else about him too… Maybe it was the fact that they were opposites, Grantaire so uncaring and cynical while he was so passionate and driven. Enjolras sighed, laying down in his bed and shutting his eyes.

**HOLIDAY**

Enjolras sat around with all his friends at another bar, everyone laughing and drinking but him. He seemed a little down but pretending to be just as energetic, and Combeferre sat beside him patting his shoulder a little. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, sitting around, talking shit about their adveries. 

“Did you hear what our representative said today?” Courfeyrac asked, looking at Enjolras, who seemed to pep up. 

“Oh yeah, that dick.” Enjolras smirked a little, “Yeah I heard what he said. And I can’t wait to talk about it tomorrow morning.” He against Combeferre’s judgement climbed up onto the table with a devilish grin, giving his best impression of the man in question.

As he climbed onto the table Grantaire cupped his hands around his mouth and announced “The representative from California has the floor.”

“Zieg Heil to the president Gasman! Bombs away is your punishment! Pulverize the Eiffel towers, who criticize your government!” He gave a Nazi salute as he shouted out to his comrades, “Kill all the fags that don't agree! Trials by fire is not a way that's meant to be!!” 

The men clapped for him, laughing and cheering as they raised their drinks to their leader. Even Combeferre smiled a little, helping him back down off the table without killing himself.

“A+ impression.” Grantaire lifted his drink in recognition. The man was so passionate about his cause, it was nice to see him let loose once in awhile, and he felt like all of the men thought the same thing. Grantaire however, frowned when he saw the smile fade off of Enjolras’s face as the blond sank back into the booth. It looked like all the energy he’d had moments earlier had been sucked right out of him. None of the others really seemed to notice but Combeferre, who leaned in to tell Enjolras something. The blond nodded in response and stood up, leaving the bar.

**BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS**

Enjolras stood in the alley behind the bar, leaning against the wall. Combeferre had suggested he go back to the bus and take it easy, but he hated being alone. At least here, he was close to everyone else. He dug through his coat pockets till he produced an orange prescription bottle, labeled “Enjolras, Vicodin, take 1 tablet twice a day”. His first name was blacked out with a Sharpie. He unscrewed the lid and swallowed a large white pill dry. His fourth today. Swallowing it dry caused him to nearly hurl, leaning forward and gagging a little, luckily he kept it down. It was far too expensive to waste pills like that.

He sighed deeply, sitting on the step outside the back door, running his fingers through his hair. It was a starless night, he noticed as he looked up to the sky. All he could see was the north star, shining alone, none of its fellow luminaries in the sky tonight.

Grantaire left the bar shortly after Enjolras did, not seeing much point in sticking around. Sure, his friends were pretty great, but he was able to admit to himself why he’d joined this cause- and that was Enjolras. Well, Enjolras and Joly’s shite art skills. He laughed a little at his own joke in his head. He too, though, couldn’t keep the expression of happiness long on his face, beginning to feel a little homesick without the others. He hadn’t left behind much… but he had left what little he did have behind, and that was enough.

**WE ARE THE WAITING**

The bus was driving through the heart of New York City a few weeks later, stopped in standstill traffic. Enjolras sat on the loveseat, looking out the window at the city lights. Although it wasn’t common for Enjolras to be high off of whatever it was he took, it was uncommon for him to be so thoughtful, without the same anger and outrage he had against the system. It wasn’t common for him to be so calm. 

“The lights are beautiful.” He smiled a little as he looked out at them, pressing his hand against the cool glass. “They remind me a bit of the stars at home.”

Joly smiled, “They do, don’t they?” 

Grantaire smiled a little, looking at Enjolras. The smile on the blond’s face was for once not a smirk of aggression or amusement, but genuine happiness. It was odd to see him in such a seemingly vulnerable state. Usually his guard was much higher and he focused his attention on only the problems he saw in the world. Never the little things, like how pretty the city looked. It was so… human. He didn’t notice when Enjolras had gotten up, but when he snapped out of his daze, Combeferre was leading the blond into the bedroom in the back of the van.

Enjolras felt weak, laying down on the bed, “I don’t want to die… I don’t want to lose all of this.” he rubbed his eyes, trying to keep tears at bay.

Combeferre frowned, sitting beside him, and petting his friend’s hair a little, “You know that they could be wrong, there’s no real way to tell…” Combeferre tried to use his medical knowledge to comfort Enjolras, but he knew that Enjolras generally didn’t care what he had to say, medical major or not.

“It’s terminal, it’ll kill me soon enough.” Enjolras covered his eyes with his sleeve. Combeferre looked down at him, sighing a little. He wished he could comfort him somehow, but what were you supposed to say to someone with cancer? Someone who was constantly in pain…

“Enj, you should go to the doctors again, it’s been awhile, and you’ve been taking a lot more shit than you should,” Combeferre said to his friend.

“I don’t want to go back. I have more important things to do.” he turned over on his side, away from Combeferre. 

Combeferre layed down beside him, wrapping his arms around Enjolras in a hug, “It’ll be alright. Trust me.”

Enjolras gave a hoarse chuckle, “Alright.” Combeferre was his best friend, he could always trust the man to try his best to comfort him, especially when he couldn’t handle it anymore. It didn’t take him long to fall asleep in the warm embrace of another person.

**SAINT JIMMY**

Several weeks had passed and the disease was taking it’s toll on Enjolras. He begged Combeferre and Courfeyrac to keep silent, and if completely necessary to make up an excuse for why he had been going out less and less with the rest of his friends. He’d been saving up all his energy for the rallies, the last thing he could do was let the public know he had a weakness.

The pain was consuming and Enjolras hardly had a week's worth of Vicodin left and a month left before he could refill it. Because of that he had been mixing other pain killers with his normal routine to get the same effect. Today he sat alone in the bus in his room, opening up four different pill bottles and pouring out a few of each, taking one Vicodin as well. He picked up his bottle of Coke and slammed it with the pills. 

It wasn’t until he stood up that he felt unbelievably dizzy, reaching for the dresser. He didn’t quite grasp it, however, falling to the floor, his vision going fuzzy, before everything went black.

…

He stood before a crowd of people on stage, dressed in something that made him look like a blond version of Billie Joe Armstrong. Bright, hot lights shone down on him, from where he stood with a microphone, stage center. He grinned, looking around at the crowd. He looked behind him, where Grantaire stood with a guitar, strumming out the opening to a song. 

“Saint Jimmy's comin' down across the alleyway, up on the boulevard like a zip gun on parade! Lights of a silhouette, he's insubordinate, coming at you on the count of 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4!” Grantaire shouted. From there Enjolras knew exactly what to do- what to say- to sing.

“My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out! Suicide commando that your momma talked about. King of the forty thieves I'm here to represent, that needle in the vein of the establishment! I'm the patron saint of the denial, with an angel face and a taste for suicidal,” he smirked at Grantaire as he sang the lyric. As the interlude set in he banged his head with the guitar, hyped and full of energy. The stage lights made him sweat, but the crowd was cheering for him and he couldn’t have cared less.

“Cigarettes and ramen and a little bag of dope, I am the son of a bitch and Edgar Allan Poe. Raised in the city in a halo of lights, product of war and fear that we've been victimized! I'm the patron saint of the denial, with an angel face and a taste for suicidal!” He walked over to Grantaire, getting in his face, “Are you talking to me?” he shouted, “I’ll give you something to cry about!” He turned more toward the crowd, panting a bit. He hadn’t had this much energy in a long time.

…

The rest of the boys returned to the bus after a big lunch at the local pub, filling into the trailer. 

“Hey, where is Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, setting his sketchbook down on the table. Combeferre looked around, seeing the bedroom door somewhat ajar, instantly feeling dread in his gut.

“He’s probably asleep, I’ll go check on him.” he quickly dismissed himself, slipping into Enjolras’s room and shutting the door behind him. When he saw the blond on the ground shaking and foaming at the mouth, he panicked, quickly dropping to his knees to help him.

…

 

“My name is St. Jimmy, I'm a son of a gun, I'm the one that's from the way outside! I'm a teenage assassin executing some fun in the cult of the life of crime. I really hate to say it but I told you so, so shut your mouth before I shoot you down ol' boy! Welcome to the club and give me some blood I'm the resident leader of the lost and found!” 

“It’s comedy… and tragedy…” Grantaire sang in response, looking sadly at Enjolras, who responded with a glare.

“It’s Saint Jimmy! And that’s my name… and don’t wear it out!” He shouted out to the crowd. 

…

On the last note of his song Enjolras awoke to the real world again, expelling the contents of his stomach onto the floor in front of him. Combeferre knelt behind him, having squeezed his arms around his stomach so that he would throw up the pills. Enjolras gasped, shaking a little, teary eyed. 

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Combeferre asked him in a hushed, but unparalleled furious tone.

“Aw, fuck…” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair, looking at the still whole pills in his vomit. “Too many…”

Combeferre let go of him, upset, but grabbing a cloth from the dresser and beginning to wipe Enj’s face, “You scared the shit out of me…” His hands were still shaky as he tried to clean Enjolras up.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… fuck…” he struggled to stand up with Combeferre’s help, somewhat wiped out. “I’m so sorry… It hurts…”

“Shut up and get in bed.” Combeferre said, helping him under the covers. Enjolras nodded a little. “I’ll tell everyone you got food poisoning, but you better not take a thing for the next 48 hours, and I mean that.”

“M’sorry…” Enjolras nodded into the pillow. 

“Good,” Combeferre sighed.

**GIVE ME NOVACAINE**

Grantaire woke up in the hospital. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure why, but he knew his torso hurt and he was supposed to be at a protest. He curled in on himself, groaning in pain. 

“Wait, I’ll get a nurse.” A familiar voice said. Grantaire looked up to see Joly leaving the room. Enjolras was sitting in a chair by the door, watching over him silently. 

Joly returned a few moments later with a nurse. She had a bottle full of a clear liquid and she filled a syringe with it, before injecting it into the IV. A numb rush filled Grantaire and everything seemed even hazier than before. It felt like when he got his cavities drilled when he was a kid, like the nurse soaked his entire body in novacaine. 

“Feel better?” The nurse asked with a smile. Grantaire smiled back and fought to keep his eyes open. He noticed the nurse telling Joly and Enjolras something about him only being allowed one visitor overnight, but he didn’t care too much. 

… 

Enjolras watched Grantaire sleep for about half an hour in peace. He had let Joly go, though for a man who wanted to be a doctor he sure didn’t seem to like hospitals. Enjolras, however, had been in hospitals since he was a kid, so he had no problem watching over their friend for the night. 

Plus, with the gaining popularity of their protest group, Enjolras was slightly afraid for Grantaire’s privacy. And Enjolras hated to admit it, but he felt fairly guilty for Grantaire’s injury. If he hadn’t left himself open for the police baton Grantaire wouldn’t have jumped in front of him and had to have emergency surgery to fix his broken ribs.

…

Grantaire woke up again about an hour later in pain. He curled up again, trying to cradle his ribs somehow. When he realized he wasn’t on his loveseat on the tour bus he looked around, trying to get his bearings in this hazy white room. 

“Grantaire, you’re awake.” Enjolras said, getting up and sitting in the chair closer to the bed, “How are you feeling?” 

Grantaire couldn’t seem to form words outside of ‘my whole chest feels like it’s being stabbed on fire’. He wanted Enjolras to tell him he wouldn’t feel this, he wanted him to kiss his forehead like his mom used to. He tried to telepathically tell these things to the blond, but he didn’t seem to get the message. 

“It hurts.” Grantaire finally said, his voice small. 

Enjolras’s face fell. He looked around like he was an ametuer at a drug deal looking for cops and pulled a needle and bottle of the clear liquid out of his pocket. The morphine the nurse gave him earlier. 

“Don’t worry, ‘Taire.” Enjolras said, filling the syringe and shooting it into the IV. “This will make it better. This stuff is better than air.” 

It crossed Grantaire’s mind that what Enjolras did wasn’t exactly what you’d call normal, but then he was too asleep to really understand what happened. 

… 

Five hours later Enjolras had fallen asleep, but Grantaire woke up again in pain. He made a little whimpering noise, something he’d have been ashamed of if he was lucid, and Enjolras woke up. 

“Does it hurt again?” Enjolras asked. His voice was more gentle than Grantaire had ever really heard it. Grantaire nodded and Enjolras stood to inject his IV again. 

Grantaire couldn’t remember Enjolras’s name. Apollo? Jesus? Jimmy? Jimmy’s a real name. 

“Jimmy.” Grantaire said, startling Enjolras. He’d never heard the man call him that before. 

“Yeah?” He asked, looking down at him. 

“Jimmy, can you kiss my head? I won’t feel anything, right?” Grantaire asked. Normally Enjolras would think the display was a little pathetic, but he knew what morphine does to your emotions. 

He decided to humor the artist, leaning down and kissing the damp curls. “Everything will be alright.” He said, petting his hair a bit. 

Grantaire smiled briefly and fell back asleep, leaving Enjolras alone with a fluttery feeling in his chest. 

**SHE’S A REBEL**

Grantaire looked at Enjolras as they watched the news. It seemed like every time they changed channels Enjolras’s face was plastered on another news program. Hell, they could barely go into supermarkets without seeing him on the cover of magazines in the checkout lines. 

He was gaining popularity fast, but that only made him work harder. Grantaire was honestly concerned for their fearless leader’s wellbeing. The man had been popping even more pills than Grantaire was accustomed to seeing, Maybe he was noticing more after he realized the potential danger Enjolras had put them both in at the hospital when he’d illegally medicated Grantaire. 

Thinking on the hospital always made Grantaire remember the kiss. Enjolras probably thought Grantaire didn’t remember and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to bring it up. It was the first time the blond had been really affectionate to him. Sure their arguments had cooled down significantly into debate and banter, but Grantaire was never sure if he really annoyed Enjolras. 

He diverted his attention back to the news, where they were replaying one of Enjolras’s speeches. The man looked so beautiful on TV. He looked like he had descended from the heavens in some magical burst of light to bring justice to the American people. In another life he’d have been an inspiring dictator. 

Looking at the man on the couch he had a hard time seeing them as the same person. Enjolras had been deteriorating, whatever the reason for him needing his pills, it must have been getting worse. 

**EXTRAORDINARY GIRL**

A day after Grantaire’s revelations on the bus, he and Enjolras were set to be sharing one of the hotel rooms (Combeferre was shelling out the money to get a room alone for once, Courfeyrac wanted to spend time with Jehan, and Grantaire was the only person that could stand sharing a room with him). Enjolras had told them he’d be going out for an interview or something while they went to a bar or a cafe or whatever it was they were doing. Grantaire didn’t know, because halfway there he decided he actually wanted to capitalize on his alone time and hang out in the room to paint or something. 

Honestly he just wanted to get wasted and feel sorry for himself, something he couldn’t do with the others around. He felt like shit, his self esteem catching up to him. After a quick pit stop to grab some beer at the local gas station, he headed back to the room. 

He had already drunk two of the beers by the time he got back to the room, so when he opened the door and heard a noise he didn’t really think anything of it, not until he got to the bathroom to see Enjolras sitting on the floor, his face in his hands, quietly sobbing. 

Enjolras’s hair was messed up, and he looked like he’d been there leaning against the bathtub since the boys left. Enjolras looked up as the door opened, his face streaked with tears, “Shit, Grantaire.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, trying to look composed, but he was anything but. When Grantaire’s initial expression of shock changed to that of a frown, Enjolras was unable to hold it back, covering his face once more, “Shit… what are you even doing back yet?” He tried to keep his voice calm enough to talk.

“Uh… I was just going to… drink alone? It sounds a little pathetic, but you know. It’s me after all.” Grantaire said, before sitting next to him and offering him a beer. “Want one?” 

“Sure.” he sighed a little, taking it from Grantaire, looking away. He took a swig, not bothering to hide his face anymore. It didn’t even matter. “I’m sorry,” he sighed a little, not ready to tell Grantaire the whole reason he was crying, but he knew the man would ask soon, so he prepared himself with the half truth.

“Wanna talk about it?” Grantaire asked, taking a drink from his already open bottle. 

“I guess… I just… I hate myself.” Enjolras said, leaning his head on the side of the tub. “The only thing I have ever had going for me is this tour… The only time anybody has ever really cared about me, or thought anything of me. And when it’s over soon… No one will even remember me. Not to mention I just… no… it’s stupid.”

“It’s probably not as stupid as you think.” Grantaire said, shrugging and trying to play it cool, “And who am I to judge your life?” 

“I’ve never even dated anyone…” He sighed, looking back at Grantaire, ready for the laughter. It sounded so stupid.

“You’ve never dated anyone?” Grantaire asked, “Well that’s easy to fix. I mean have you seen the magazines? You’ve been in like three of those J-15 teenage girl magazines. You could get any girl you wanted.” 

“I’m not really into that…” Enjolras said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, unable to meet Grantaire’s gaze.

“Not into random adoring fangirls?” Grantaire teased lightly.

“Not into girls.” Enjolras said bluntly, hiding his face.

“Well, at least we have one thing in common, Apollo.” Grantaire said, hiding a smile with a swallow from his bottle. 

“Really?” Enjolras blushed, looking back over to him. “Somehow I pegged you as straight.”

Grantaire nearly spit out his drink, “Really? Me? I’m offended.” 

“What, why?” Enjolras blinked, looking a little bit better, if nothing else, distracted from his troubles.

“How did you not notice? Next you’ll be telling me that you think Jehan and Courf haven’t been fucking all year.” Grantaire sighed, glad to have distracted Enjolras.

“I knew that much,” he coughed a little, blushing. “Jeez.”

“But anyways, you could get any guy you wanted too. You’re attractive as hell, the world is your oyster or whatever.” Grantaire said, patting Enjolras’s arm.

“You’re just saying that.” Enjolras was used to people pitying him.

“No, I’m serious.” Grantaire said. The alcohol was starting to hit him now, and so all his good sense of reason and restraint were gone. He grabbed Enjolras’s hand, causing the blond to face him more directly. 

Enjolras looked like he was going to say something, but Grantaire didn’t care this time. Instead he pressed his lips to Enjolras’s slightly parted ones, making sure the revolutionary shut up for once. 

“See? Serious.” Grantaire said when he drew back. He felt the nerves in his stomach and was starting to regret drinking so much, as he was beginning to fear he might throw up. 

“W-what?” Enjolras blushed, “You… like me? I thought… I thought it was just me.”

“Oh thank god, I was afraid you were going to punch me or something.” Grantaire said, sighing in relief. 

“What? Why would I do that, stupid?” Enjolras pushed him playfully. “I’ll never be able to understand you.”

**LETTERBOMB**

About six months had passed, and as Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship developed, Enjolras seemed to get worse. No matter how much Grantaire asked he refused to tell him what he was even sick with, but Grantaire could have ignored that if Enjolras’s behavior hadn’t become so erratic. 

The American people’s attention can only be held for so long and Saint Jimmy was slowly being pushed to the backs of their minds by Perez Hilton and other mind numbing celebrity gossip. Enjolras was trying desperately and dangerously to keep their eyes on him, his protests getting more and more extreme and violent. All of their friends had been in the hospital at least once by now, and no matter how they asked Enjolras would not calm down. 

But it wasn’t until Grantaire saw Enjolras almost kill a kid in a protest in their hometown’s backyard that he finally snapped. 

This boy, Gavroche, had seemed really into Enjolras’s speech, so when the blond went to talk to him Grantaire figured it was just to sign an autograph or something. But then he saw the kid run off with a paper bag and Grantaire’s concern skyrocketed. 

It wasn’t until there was a blast by the policemen and the kid screaming in pain that he realized that what Enjolras gave him was a mini bomb. 

…

Enjolras and the other Amis were taken into custody for the bomb that went off that day. They were questioned one by one, but it couldn’t be traced back to them so they were let go. Enjolras asked after the kid, guilt consuming him, and they told him that he was in the Intensive Care Unit. 

He got back to the bus and walked on almost silently. He sat on Grantaire’s loveseat, about to take a short nap, when he heard Combeferre and Courfeyrac talking from the bedroom. He got up and pressed an ear to the door, listening in. 

“I don’t like to think about it either!” Courfeyrac was whisper-shouting, “But he’s going to die, and at the rate he’s going he’ll die soon. We have to figure out what we’re going to do with our lives afterwards.” 

“Who’d have thought you’d be the responsible one?” Combeferre asked with a hollow laugh. 

“I want to live with Jehan.” Courfeyrac admitted, “I haven’t talked to him about it, but that takes a fair amount of financial stability. And I want to make him happy. I mean, I’ll miss this, I’ll miss Enj, but… I kind of miss him now. He’s not being himself.” 

“We can’t hold that against him-” Combeferre started to say, but Enjolras never got to hear the rest because he was being pulled away from the door by a silent, fuming Grantaire. 

“We need to talk.” He said, dragging Enjolras outside. He pulled his boyfriend into an alley and let go, backing up a bit and crossing his arms. 

“Well, what did you want to say to me?” Enjolras asked, all attitude. He instantly regretted it when he saw the look of disdain on Grantaire's face. He’d never really seen the man mad before and he was slightly afraid. 

“What do I want to say?” Grantaire asked incredulously, “I don’t know, Jimmy, maybe that you have to chill out and fucking think before you send a ten year old to bomb the fucking cops? Or maybe that you should think about why you’re popping pills like god damned tic tacs? Or maybe that the cops had to question Jehan in the hospital because they fucking broke his arm?” 

“Jehan broke-?” Enjolras started to ask, but Grantaire silenced him with a glare. 

“No, I get to talk. I know you think you’re invincible or something, but you’re fucking not. You’re not the fucking ‘Jesus of suburbia’ or Saint Jimmy or whatever other name you think sounds cool, you’re some little rich boy from California. You’re the fucking idiot America that you’ve been fighting against.” Grantaire ranted. 

Enjolras was silent. He wanted to apologize, but he knew the words would be thrown right back in his face, so instead he started to get angry. 

“You’re going to die if you keep this up.” Grantaire said, not knowing how close to home he was hitting, “And then what’ll we do? Keep protesting? Not a chance. Without you, none of this is my problem.”

Enjolras’s blood ran cold. He was overwhelmed by a fury that masked all the insecurities the words normally would have brought up. Who the fuck did Grantaire think he was? He wasn’t anything without Enjolras, without Saint Jimmy. 

“No, you shut up.” Enjolras said, silencing Grantaire for a moment. “I can’t fucking take this place, I can’t take this fucking town. I’m leaving.” 

“Fine.” Grantaire said, still pissed, “Where are we going?” 

“No. I’m leaving you.” Enjolras corrected, storming back towards the bus. He refused to look back at Grantaire’s shell shocked figure and would not allow anyone else to let Grantaire onto the bus. He had Bossuet bring Grantaire his things, and by morning (when they picked up Jehan) they were gone.

**WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS**

A few months later Enjolras had given up everything and moved back home, getting a tiny apartment with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were both worried about him. He had picked up a mundane job as an office worker for some local tech company, doing nothing but mind numbing paperwork all day until suddenly his condition took a turn for the worse. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre awoke to Enjolras screaming in pain in his room. His whole body felt like it was dying on him. His keepers quickly scrambled to get him to the emergency room, the first time he’d been at the doctor for himself in at least a year.

“So… is anything different?” Enjolras asked, clutching his arm as he lie in bed, digging his nails into his pale flesh as a feeble attempt to redirect the pain that had washed over him. He instantly regretted the question when the doctor turned to look at him, seriously. 

“There is no easy way to say this but… you only have till the end of September, if you’re lucky.” He pushed up his glasses, letting out a deep sigh. “It’s obvious you have been putting your body under a tremendous amount of strain lately.”

“What?!” Enjolras asked, jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me- I had- I had at least a couple of years!” His fists trembled. This was it.

“I’m sorry… There isn’t anything we can do, the cancer… It’s spread far too much. All I can advise is taking it easy and hoping for a miracle.”

Enjolras looked at the doctor, the last shred of light leaving his now dull, blue eyes. It was the end.

After Combeferre and Courfeyrac heard the news they tried desperately to get in contact with Grantaire, but Enjolras forebayed they say anything about it to him. The last time they had reached him all they’d gotten to do was tell Grantaire about Enjolras’s new job, before he got annoyed, hanging up. This time he didn’t answer the phone even once.

Enjolras had quit his job to stay at home in bed all day. He couldn’t find the motivation to move anymore. He regretted what he had lost, and knew there was nothing to do to get it back. The world had forgotten about him. Moved on without him.

**HOMECOMING**

**The Death of Saint Jimmy**

“Courf…” Enjolras called weakly from his room. “Could you come in here?” Enjolras looked sadly at the door as Courfeyrac entered, “Would you do me a favor?”

Courfeyrac was on duty to watch Enjolras today. It had been months like this where Combeferre and Courf had switched off, making sure someone was home for Enjolras. And in all that time he hadn’t asked for any favors, so when Courfeyrac heard him, he was surprised.

“Of course, what is it?” Courf came closer to him, looking worried.

“Could you run out… and get me a soda?” Enjolras asked, pausing a little, as if he needed a little more time to remember what it was he wanted.

“‘Course… cream?” he asked, looking at his bedridden friend.

“Yeah.” he nodded, closing his eyes again. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll be right back… so hold tight, okay?”

“‘Kay.” Enjolras smiled a little. As soon as Courfeyrac had gone though, he shifted, getting out of bed. He could still walk just fine, just a little slowly. Just a little stiff. He couldn’t take the waiting though. Waiting to die. Over the past months he’d become more unraveled, unable to find the will to live. Without his cause, he was nothing. Without Grantaire, he was nothing and alone. He knelt down in front of his nightstand, pulling the drawer out all the way, taking an object, neatly wrapped in a handkerchief out. As he unwrapped it, the cold dark grey metal of the handgun was revealed, making him sigh deeply. Seeing it still there was a relief. He stuffed the firearm into his waistband and put on a T-shirt, looking out the window one more time, before taking a note from his pocket, setting it on his pillow. Then, he left.

When Courfeyrac returned home only about fifteen minutes later, he set the white plastic bag down on the coffee table and came into Enjolras’s room. Something didn’t feel right to him, and when he saw the note on Enjolras’s pillow, in place of his weak head, his eyes widened. His suspicions had been confirmed. He ran over to the piece of paper, unfolding it, and reading what it had to say. The very first line brought him to tears,

“Jimmy died today. He blew his brains out into the bay.”

The letter said far more, riddled with apologies and confessions but Courfeyrac couldn’t even read it, quickly calling Combeferre and running down to the bay.

If he had been only a few minutes earlier he would have seen Enjolras, standing in the water up to his waist, staring down at the phone, his eyes filled with tears as he waited for a last phone call that would never come. But he wasn’t, and what he saw was the tail end of Enjolras’s suicide, as the blond figure fell back into the water in a spray of red, the gun dropping from his hand, and the sickening splash. 

“Enjolras!” he screamed, throwing his phone into the sand as he ran out to retrieve the revolutionary. He was too late though, Enjolras was dead. The tide tried to sweep away both the men as Courfeyrac struggled to get him back to shore. He couldn’t see anything, just the blur that his eyes could make out behind the tears.

**East 12th Street**

Grantaire sat at home, watching TV. The news, actually. He still watched it as though he was preparing to debate with Enjolras over some issue or another, though he hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year. 

He sighed, leaning back. He didn’t want to talk to any of the Amis, though he’d stayed friends with most of them. He knew he should call them soon, to keep up their friendship or whatever, but he knew that one thing would lead to another and he’d go crawling back to Enjolras.

And would it really be that bad? Courfeyrac had told him Enjolras was working at an office job. Maybe he’d calmed down. 

Grantaire amused himself thinking of the revolutionary as a paper pusher. Maybe Enjolras was there, hating his mundane job and dreaming about the glory days. Maybe he was sucking up to his bosses, or talking to coworkers to start an office revolt.

Maybe he was thinking about Grantaire. 

He sighed again, putting his face in his hands. This had gone on long enough. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had left a lot of voice messages asking him to call back, and maybe this would have taught Enjolras a lesson. Maybe now, if he came back, they could be happy together. 

He picked up his phone to call, but first he glanced at the TV. The news had changed and for the first time in months Enjolras’s face was onscreen. 

“St. Jimmy is confirmed dead.” The woman said, she continued into a long story about what was going on, but Grantaire wasn’t really paying attention, he was in a haze. He dialed Courfeyrac.

Combeferre picked up. 

“Grantaire?” He asked. The man’s voice sounded broken, like he’d been crying. 

“It’s not… it’s not true is it?” Grantaire asked. 

“I’m so sorry.” Combeferre started, but Grantaire flipped the phone shut, ending the call. He threw it across the room and then changed the channel. 

**Nobody Likes You**

Enjolras would walk through the door any minute. Grantaire was sure. He just had to wait long enough. He’d have to stay up, to welcome him home from work. 

He’d give him a piece of his mind, for keeping him up worried like that. But he wouldn’t be too mad. 

Grantaire fell asleep after losing count of how many cups he had drank. He woke up and Enjolras still wasn’t there. 

“He’s probably out with the guys.” Grantaire said to himself, eyes fixed on his ringing phone in the corner, “I’ll have to talk to him about not inviting me.” 

He fell asleep again. 

**Rock and Roll Girlfriend**

In Grantaire’s dream, he was a rock star. He’d always wanted to be one, until he discovered that his many talents did not include singing. 

Enjolras was his boyfriend and they were living a wild life, like stars from the 80s. Girls and kids all over the place. Enjolras was fighting with him, yelling about how he hadn’t done drugs in like 22 days. 

Grantaire couldn’t have cared though, he was probably stoned out of his mind. 

And it felt so real, that when he woke up to some TV show about tattoos Grantaire almost thought he’d see Enjolras come in in some ridiculous leather jacket, complaining about a drummer. 

But that didn’t happen. 

**We’re Coming Home Again**

The funeral was the worst thing Grantaire had ever had to deal with in his 21 years of life. He was numb through the ceremony. There were a lot of people there, a lot of people in the street who never really knew him. 

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Feuilly, Marius, and Joly had been chosen to be the pallbearers. Courfeyrac had offered to let Grantaire be one too, but he’d refused for fear of just dropping the coffin and running away. 

The funeral procession was huge. Enjolras had a large following and once they discovered that he’d been doing all he’d done while having terminal cancer, people’s respect for him skyrocketed. Grantaire would have laughed, but he didn’t feel like doing that much anymore. 

Long after everyone left the gravesite there was a vigil. There were protesters, of course. Enjolras would have been disappointed if there weren’t protesters at his funeral. Grantaire had been on the approved list of people allowed to be by the grave that day, and after his friends left and the vigil was taking place, he set his hand on the gravestone, trying to communicate with Enjolras in some way. He didn’t want to talk, and didn’t want anyone to listen in. 

“Bye.” He said at length, clearing his throat, “See you later, Apollo.” 

… 

Enjolras threw his phone into the ocean. Too late for Grantaire to call, this had to be done. 

He raised the gun to his head. He was going to leave this world behind, finally get some rest. Home. 

There was the sound of a blast, and somewhere in the back of his blown-out brain he thought he might have hallucinated Courfeyrac, but that must have just been a dream, because he was headed for the light. 

It was so beautiful. And as he walked he could see the silhouette of something in the distance. He picked up his speed, almost running now. 

It was the statue in his hometown. The one he’d made a speech on when he saw Grantaire in the crowd for the first time, talking to Joly. And Grantaire was there too, or at least a shadow of him. 

He tried to grab his hands, but his fingers went straight through them. Not-Grantaire smiled a little. 

“Soon.” He said, leaning back on the statue, “Rest. He’ll be here soon.”

Enjolras nodded and sat down, closing his eyes. He didn’t want a cigarette or a pill or anything. He just wanted this quiet. 

He wanted to stay here at home. 

**WHATSERNAME**

Grantaire saw familiar blond curls as he walked down the street. 

“Enjolras!” He yelled, running towards the man. Enjolras turned around, confused, but stopped.

“Grantaire?” He asked, and Grantaire smiled at him. He didn’t know what to say, it’d been so long. 

Grantaire’s eyes flashed open. He thought his dream had been real. Again. He’d been having problems with that. 

Over the last month he’d been wasting his time, between visiting Enjolras’s grave, going to bars, and sleeping he hadn’t visited his friends. Well, except for once, when he saw Combeferre. 

Combeferre had let him sit in Enjolras’s room. It felt weird, but he got to sit there and read Enjolras’s letter and think about what could have possibly been going through the man’s head before he died. 

It came with an added bonus. Enjolras had horded (probably an illegal amount of) Vicodin in his bottom drawer. The locked one. Grantaire had picked the lock and shoved it all into his bag before Combeferre came to see if he was okay. 

That had been three weeks ago. He hadn’t really talked to anyone since. 

He went out to a bar, even though it was about noon, and sat drinking. There was a special on TV about Enjolras, because even when he went out to escape the man seemed to follow him, and two girls having lunch were discussing him.

“Oh yeah, whatever happened to that guy? What’s his name?” One of the girls asked. Obviously she’d been living under a rock. “Did he marry that other guy… what’s his face?” 

“No, he’s dead you idiot.” The other girl said. Grantaire felt a little better at that. But he still just paid his tab and went home. 

He didn’t even have a decent picture of Enjolras to look at. He hadn’t printed any new ones and he’d burned all his old ones. So he just sat on his bed, looking at the wall as he pulled out the Vicodin. 

It seemed like forever had passed since he last saw the blond. But it didn’t matter, his regrets were useless. They couldn’t bring him back. 

He grabbed a stale beer from next to the bed and drank some to help him swallow the pills. He wasn’t sure how many it would take to kill him, but Enjolras had had two bottles, so he took as many as he could swallow without being sick, then laid down. 

The nausea came first, and Grantaire fought to keep it all down. He wanted this, he wanted to die already. What did he have to live for? 

Then there was the confusion. He didn’t know where he was. When he was. Was he on the bus? Why was he on a bed and not the loveseat? 

Enjolras was there, then. There was still a deep bloody hole where his right eye should have been from the bullet and it scared Grantaire, but not as much as it would have if he was lucid. The man was staring at him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Would you have done things differently, if you’d have known?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire shook his head. He couldn’t go back in time, and if he could the only thing he’d change would be his own stubbornness and Enjolras’s inability to go to a fucking doctor. He’d never want to forget Enjolras. 

“Can I come along?” Grantaire choked out. Enjolras nodded and helped Grantaire up. As they walked towards the light, Enjolras’s eye healed and they sat beneath the statue where he first saw the man, standing over them all like some god. 

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Enjolras said, grinning. Grantaire grabbed him in his arms, holding tight. He was never going to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you guys know, if you're like "wait, Enjolras is only 20? And Grantaire just turned 21? how are they going to bars??" the answer is not legally. And definitely not with fake IDs or anything. Nah. Too legal for that. 
> 
> If you listen to the songs during/after each part, please note that the pronoun "she" is always talking about Enjolras.


End file.
